Untamed Rage
by GloryOfBromacia
Summary: The sagas of the Freljord speak of a legendary warrior, under the imposement of self-exile that committed deeds beyond the might of mortals. His bloodlust was insatiable, and his strength unrivalled throughout the Freljord. This is his tale, and how he came to be.
1. Prologue

_**UNTAMED RAGE: PROLOGUE**_

_"Each of us all must his end abide_  
_in the ways of the world; so win who may_  
_glory ere death! When his days are told,_  
_that is the warrior's worthiest doom."_

-Beowulf, Ch. 21

**THERE** was a man hunched over the hills.

He took a swig out of his bottle, splattering the strong ale over his lips. Raising a muscled hand to his lips, he brushed the droplets aside, although a few beads stubbornly clung onto his blonde moustache.

It was not everyday that he sat down like this, gazing into the horizon and reflecting on his past. Olaf the Berserker was bent over, his gauntlets resting on his exposed knees, gazing with his angry, yet rational eyes at the darkness beyond the icy slopes distrustingly. There was, as usual, several stray hairs dotting his forehead, golden strands against a plain of crimson skin. He had always brushed them up unknowingly, perhaps of his previous vanity as the Might of Lokfar, but now he felt he deserved it. He deserved the symbol of recognition of a savage.

His brothers, comrades in battle had been massacred one by one, and he had been exiled in disgrace. It was not because he did not follow rules-no, he never abhorred to them, but he had always been an outcast. His birthplace, history, and actions-no, not one was in accordance with the traditional berserker's.

He was still young, nothing like those that had passed away after a long, solitary life or those driven to insanity due to their humiliation as an exile, but already he had the few insistent strands that remained resolute in their attempt to always cloud his forehead, to always display his wild nature.

While the occasional onlooker would describe him as a massive brute of nature, fiercely territorial and almost bestial himself, none could look beyond his fogged eyes to see the true being that yearned not just for attention within.

Later on, he would make a name for himself, leading the Winter's Claw with the might of his dual axes, imposing his will on those that dared cross his path. He would, as he had done before, charge war-painted into the fray of battle, bearing the fearsome symbols of his domination in combat: the tanned mail created from beaten fur of the most vicious of beasts single-handedly slain by his axe, his prided helmet, completed with intricate curves and adorned with curved horns ending in deadly spires, carved off during his conquest of the dreaded frost serpent.

But any man that would view the distrustful, axe-brandishing lover of war would describe his pair of massive battle axes as his most defining feature. Coated with boiled leather at the handles, befitting his title as a berserker, his axes were his pride and joy. Each of them colossal, they were both complemented with sharp, spiked shafts, the blades of the deadly weapons sharpened to such an extent they could deliver oblivion with a single strike, capable of tearing through any piece of armour with the essence of slain beasts imbued within the mystical blade. Enchanted with the sacred elements of thunder and lightning, no foe could stand in its path without being beaten into submission.

Later on, he would become renowned in battle, his legendary status of a combat-hardened warrior enhanced by his numerous victories. But his past would always plague him, haunt him, trail behind him and stalk him like a set of hidden values. He would never know his true roots, his true identity, nor those he influenced that would become the greatest of the Freljord, just like him.

Thrust into hell on earth itself and tempered by the blazing inferno of hell, he would evolve in his future years to become something like an uncompromising, merciless predator, scourge of all Avarosan and Frostguardian alike. His presence on the battlefield would spell certain doom for his opponents, and death would become an element that revolved around him everyday.

But that was not now. Now, he was an disgraced exile, cast into a world that ignored his desperate needs. He would fight to survive, fight to live, before being reforged into the cruel demon that would stalk the battlefields and inflict terror upon his opponents.

Now...was different.

[]

Hi guys! This is my first fanfic, modelled after Olaf, the berserker. I was just cruising through the LoL Fanfic Archives the other day and discovered the absolute lack of Olaf fanfic. I couldn't imagine why, I think Olaf has one of the best lore, and it can be elaborated on so much, so I'm writing to prove my point.

Please do drop me suggestions in the review section! I will really appreciate them very much and also do my best regarding any questions you have.


	2. Worthiness

_**UNTAMED RAGE**_

_**Chapter 1: Worthiness**_

_I'll ask of the berserks, you tasters of blood,_

_Those intrepid heroes, how are they treated_

_Those who wade out into battle?_

_Wolf-skinned they are called. In battle_

_They bear bloody shields._

_Red with blood are their spears when they come to fight._

_They form a closed group._

_The prince in his wisdom puts trust in such men_

_Who hack through enemy shields._

-Thórbiörn Hornklofi, 9th century Norwegian poet

**IMAGINE** hell. Where flames roar, where judgment is delivered upon the weak, where victims grovel in its infernal pits, where the modern man of Demacia or Piltover would find it impossible to survive.

**Lokfar**.

There is only one phrase to describe it: Hell on Earth. Where the icicles were impaling stakes, the weather the burning inferno that threatened to engulf you wherever you were. There was only one way to survive in Lokfar, and that was rage. The berserkers had harnessed it for long enough to know the rekindling warmth that came along with the madness that proved so valuable in combat.

Lokfar was never passive. Its assault on its citizens never ceased, forever directing upon the berserkers obstacles: the dreaded winter whose harsh frost claimed the weak, the tempests that ravaged the coastal peninsular, and the pack of ferocious wolves attracted to the warmth of the berseker fires.

Yet the most vicious of environments bred the most vicious of talents. No one ever knew where his unending fury descended from, but it was rumoured that the young Olaf had descended from southern Freljord, surviving the unmerciful Lokfar winter that had claimed his parents. Supposedly, he had come to Lokfar after a long trudge, using the rage to overcome every of the challenges Lokfar had managed to throw at him. None dared question him of his origins, especially after the village chieftain, Ivar Osmond, had personally commended him on his outstanding performance in the Troll-Berserker Wars.

This is his tale of glory, of how he originated, how he ventured into the world, and how he carved his legacy into the ice of the Freljord itself.

"By Odin!" the patrons of the tavern rose in praise at the climax of the tale, narrated by the mighty warrior himself. He had personally committed the exploits that had so entranced them.

"Obliteration!" roared the berserker, his spittle descending on his audience that did not even flinch. "And all that dared block my path were destroyed!" continued Olaf, flexing his powerful muscles in an attempt to further enthrall the mesmerized crowd. Even the bartender had forsaken his position at the counter to listen to the legendary saga. All were captivated by his account. The sagas of Lokfar would later remember this battle as the decisive Battle of the Northern Peninsula, where the Berserkers successfully reclaimed vast swathes of land and dealt a direct blow to the Troll Tribes with the death of one of their most famous generals.

There was an old, desolate corner at the extreme left of the inn, where men that had fallen in disgrace would situate themselves. It was a shadowy quarter, where the disgraced would commonly associate themselves with, speaking their tales in extreme silence. And yet, from the darkness came a screeching wail in stark indignation. "The lies!"

Every head turned at the unwelcome, intruding noise as a haggard figure walked out of the shadows, his frail body supported by the walking stick that carried his fragile body forward.

To the mere observer, it was a wonder he had managed to survive the years of solitary living in Lokfar himself, but those who had lived in Lokfar for years recognised him as Bildr, formerly one of Lokfar's most distinguished warriors; honoured for his exploits over three decades ago. Miraculously, he had survived bitter cold and biting axe, unlike the rest of his comrades that had given up their lives on the battlefield. After years of inactivity on the battlefield, his fame and reputation faded. Although none dared address his absence from battle as cowardice, it was clear from the way none wanted to interact with him that his time was over.

Even so, Olaf would not stand mockery. The berserker, although young in age, was not to be trifled with when it came to battle.

"Oh yes?" he jeered, directing his gaze at the limping figure that continued towards him. "And that is a surprise, coming from the _coward_ that rots his days away in a bar!"

"_Coward_?" the elder's pose turned almost aggressively as he returned Olaf's gaze with steel. " When I was your age, young fool, I too was a warrior. The most remarkable warrior to have ever lived in Lokfar!" he claimed.

"Silence with the lies! Old age had eaten you up," Olaf leered. "You are naught but an old coward wasting the resources of Lokfar. If I had not respect for the laws, thou art would have laid slain by thy blade."

"You boast and gloat!" cried the old warrior. "I challenge you-I challenge you to The Tossing! And I say-your fate shalt be that of I! Old, and disgraced! "

By then the room had fallen deathly silent. It was notable to all the viewers that it was not a mere conflict by any means. The Tossing was a reading of the omens, and usually involved the betting of not just gold pieces but one's future itself. Should the challenger predict correctly the fate of the challenged, the one who lost would be dishonoured, scorned eternally by the berserkers. The fortunes read could decide whether one would revel forever in glory or bath in shame forever.

The Might of Lokfar went crimson in rage, agitated by the taunt of the aged raider. Olaf now stood at his full height, the fire at his back illuminating his armour with a fiery glow, picking out the proud markings on his silver helmet and tanned bracers.

"Your bluster is uncalled for if you dare not accept my challenge!" laughed the warrior at Olaf's indecision. "Why? Dare not accept the taunt of what you call...a coward?"

"Silence!" roared Olaf, more emboldened than ever. 'Your are an envious bag of bones, and I will enjoy your bones crunching against my axe!"

"We shall see," the elder continued, the edges of his withered lips twisting into a sinister smile. Almost ominously, thunder boomed outside the inn as the crowd reluctantly brought forth the sacred tools of The Tossing.

"Start with the damned ritual!" thundered Olaf in his rage. "I want to see that old man dead by thy very blade!"

"Before we proceed, soothsayer," Bildr nodded at a robed elder that had silently trailed his way to the front of the commotion at the persuasion of the crowd. "Is it not customary to lay out the punishments and conditions of the wager? Allow me to start. Should I lose, I offer my head in punishment, to address the challenge I issued and to be the coward that Olaf had addressed me as. And you…?"

"Self-exile!" roared the berserker, dragging over a massive table with his incredible strength. "Should my destiny not be with Lokfar, self-exile and a humiliating death in the peaks shalt be thy path!"

"Very well," nodded the soothsayer in consent, his white wisp of a beard flowing as his head conducted the motion. Chanting a mysterious incantation, the bones on the table vibrated violently, reassembling themselves. A final shudder brought the process to the halt as the bones were promptly swept up and randomly shuffled, nestling hidden in the hands of the soothsayer.

And then it stopped. The berserkers leaned forward, eager to see the results. Such were the stakes of the wager that some had even begun to pass bets on whoever would be proven right.

The next moment it all seemed to grow terribly wrong.

The triumphant smirk the elderly raider displayed, chin raised in mock superiority.

The white cheeks intense in both shock and humiliation, emotions that now played on the confident warrior's face. There was a way his red cheeks now exchanged with the pale white, that showed how his bravado had been dampened so quickly and his pride wounded so severely.

Even the soothsayer had blinked, his leathery eyelids fluttering in surprise.

The Tossing had predicted a long life and a quiet passing.

**HE** stomped his way out of the inn, his great chest heaving and descending in a motion unusual of the common man. Thoughts were flooding his head, pangs of alarm rang, frustration and anger clouded his brain.

"The lies!" howled the lone warrior that stood in the town centre, relaying his frustrations to the biting cold and furious winds, foes that never ceased their harassment, that refused to desert him.

His howl continued, now more of an agonised cry of rage to the heavens than a mournful wail to describe his current situation. How dare they. He was Olaf, the same Olaf that had led them into battle, the same Olaf that had claimed so much territory for his adoptive tribe, the same Olaf that had achieved untold glories in battle. But his men were naught but cold-blooded fools, a feat of which Olaf could never achieve. Southern Freljordians had their own definition of mercy and the berserker had inherited it from his parents.

Almost immediately, his howls ceased. He unsheathed his axes from his belt buckle, reminiscing the days where his men had joined him in slaughter and conquest, looking up to the mighty warrior as their leader.

He was not crying now. Tears were emotion, and emotion was weakness. To dominate the Freljord, only rage was necessary. Rage ensured survival, constant adaptation, and the adrenaline one felt from the emotion were sufficient to overcome Lokfar.

The fools. He would show them. He was Olaf, the greatest of all berserkers. His name would live on forever, and should he fail in his undertaking of his greatest task yet, he would prove the prophecy wrong by sacrificing his life in his effort to bring down the beast.

His error was true, and it would plague him true for the rest of his exile. But he could be redeemed- after all, honour could be won back. He knew just how. Nobody would ever dare to cross his path ever again, not when the target he intended to slay was the creature that had personally annihilated thousands of men, where ships fell prey to its icy breath and spiked talons. The Sea King itself.

"**OLAF**?" the inquisitive voice of Sigbjorn, his sworn brother, whispered in a sudden urgency. "Are you mad?"

The berserker sighed, laying his coarse palms on his brother's pauldrons, and addressed him with utmost seriousness.

"Aye,brother. Had there any other way, thy would have tried. But there is only one way I can recover my honour," he vowed, clenching his brother ever tighter.

"Even so! Is there not any other ship you can use save the Valhalla?"

"None. None could possibly survive the maelstroms of the Uncharted Waters. Only the chieftain's ride can conquer the Wrath of the Seas."

An opaque, certain look slowly dawned onto the pupils of Sigbjorn as he fully realised the extent of the berserker's pride. Of course. He had never experienced shame, never grovelled in defeat, never humiliated in front of the entire population. He would literally brave the endless abyss of the ocean simply to salvage a rag of his pride. His eyes flickered, confonted by the dilemma that most troubled him. His brother or the tribe? Sigbjorn was torn between the conflicting emotions of accompanying his sworn brother, or acknowledge Olaf's exile and report his intents to the chief.

In the end his choice was almost obvious.

"**BY** the Lord Thor himself!" Olaf recited the holy words in surprise when he approached the vessel, already hijacked by the motley crew, commanded by five familiar faces that had once served under the axe of Olaf. "Sigvatr! Lifsteinn! I thought you dead in the Northern campaign!" he exclaimed, embracing the men in an embrace. The years they had spent together waging war against the trolls had done more than just reclamation of lost land: he had forged unbreakable bonds.

"Nay, friend Olaf," came the rumbling voice of a colossal titan that stood towering even before Olaf himself. "Melkofr and I would rather suicide that allow our corpses to be handled by filthy carcasses," he spat, "like that chieftain of yours, Ivar."

The atmosphere turned icy almost immediately as the band of brothers recalled their exile. Renowned for charging into the gaping jaws of death and back, the six had made a name for themselves in the Troll-Berserker battles that had raged on within Lokfar since centuries ago. Known for their rash plans, bold to the point of insanity, the gang struck terror even in the high court of the Trolls itself, which had been divided due to internal strife. None dared deny them of their glory, for every of their expeditions of conquest and pillage ended up in blood, smoke and gore. But whatever the casualties in their squad, there would always be one constant. Six men, wielding bloodied weapons testament to their might, march out glorious from the battlefield.

Perhaps their glory was the very thing that prompted the chieftain to take action. Rivalled by the increasing influence of the Gang of Six that threatened to exceed even his own, the chieftain had exiled four of them under the accusation of insubordination, a decision doubted by all, but questioned by none. A chieftain was a chieftain, and to display disrespect, to doubt his god-bestowed credibility, was to court death. Ivar Osmond had a long stream of criminal investigations leading to his name, including murder and assassination of political opponents, wasteful campaigns and even usurping the throne.

"The talk about Ivar is wasted," growled Sigvatr, his cowled head sinister as ever. Similar to Olaf, he had been bred in the milder Avarosan lands, and had fled to Lokfar due to the constant pillaging of rival tribes. Where traditional berserkers excelled at hand-to-hand combat, his nimble body and agile limbs proved more suitable to the rapid, slinging action of the bow and arrow that he so expertly wielded. It was said that with all his expertise, he had never missed a shot. Somehow, shameful of his thinner limbs and more slender build, he had hooded himself in a desperate attempt to avoid the attention drawn to him as a distinct foreigner, for possessing the looks berserkers never did. "Talk about the fool will lead to anything but fruition. Olaf, Ivar is naught but a coward. He detests opposition, and silences the crowd with achievements in battles he did not even partake. During your greatest moment of desperation, he only chose to remain silent, to condemn you to the peaks. If so vile was he, thou art deserve the Valhalla more then he ever should."

The Valhalla. The finest work of art in all of the Freljord, pride of the berserkers and the Northern tribes alike. No pounding fists of the ocean could puncture the unbreakable wood, and no wave could possibly engulf the greatest longboat of them all. Armed with cannon, axe and grit alike, no enemy proved a threat when sailing with the most nefarious berserkers of them all, whose reputation preceded their names. Sculpted to celebrate victory for the first chieftain Ragnarr, it had been named after his feats and achievements. Surprising sturdy, it had stood resilient to the waves that claimed ships centuries younger than itself.

The goliath, Gragas, had already began to ascend the ladder that led to the longboat, taking his position at the sea serpent's figurehead that decorated all longboats. Sigvatr's sharp eyes had situated themselves in the crow's nest of the mast, with companionship of his bow and arrow. The already erected mast's sails unfolded in the blizzard that always accompanied the perilous waters of Lokfar. The pirates under Gragas' command took their respective positions in the ornately carved shields at the sides of the hull.

"Full speed ahead!" ordered the commanding voice of Gragas as the mighty longboat surged forward in the swelling water, setting sail on its voyage that would prove the ultimate test of strength.

**A** **DUO** had situated themselves far from the seafarers that rejoiced in the hull. Standing near the tail at stern, they were both ironically the mightiest warriors on board the Valhalla. Contrary to Olaf's expectations, the pirates that accompanied them voiced no questions about the recklessness of their expedition or fear of the great unknown. Although their palms were numb from the biting cold and the upcoming blizzard that had gathered at the horizon, their hold on the oars had not once faltered.

He remembered still, the snide remarks of Bildr. The insolent fool that had scoffed at his accomplishments, insulted him and had ultimately, caused his exile. He hadn't felt hatred for a long time now. Berserkers had no time to exact their revenge and pillage the homes of their kind, especially when petty squabbles usually ended up with the chieftain punishing both households.

His honour could be won back, true-there was the case where an occasional berserker would prove his worth by committing a feat beyond those of common men. The last such deed had been centuries past, where an exiled warrior had slaughtered hordes of incoming trolls that threatened Lokfar.

Despite his promises, Olaf was still in doubt. The serpent was said to possess and create at its will not only the furious maelstroms that raged around it, but also the electrical charges it was capable of emitting. Both abilities are nothing short of devastating. An incoming ship hit by the fearsome projectile would find itself sinking in seconds. Apart from that, its ivory carapace, believed by Lokfarians to be forged from pure ice itself, could deflect any weapons. Easily asserting itself as a top hunter, it was even terrestrial, seen basking on land. One could easily describe it as an apex predator.

Gragas sighed, viewing the man before him that gazed out at the treacherous plain of blue the Valhalla had left behind. The turbulent waters crashed against the hull of the Valhalla, almost seeming to oppose its journey, to stop the men on board from venturing forth to their imminent deaths. There was nothing the raiders had not experienced, although the seafaring weather was one of the worst today. The five men did not know what Olaf had intended to do after slaying the Frost Serpent, but had their own individual doubts about whether this was about reclamation of glory, or running back once again to become the lapdog of Ivar Osmond.

**STORMS **continued to rage around the ship, attempting to drag the mighty vessel to the abyssal depths. The ocean was different now. Much to their surprise, the choppy waters had subsided, giving way to calm seas, as if the very water was commanded by the will of the Frost Serpent. The tempest, however, was in contrast, increasing its intensity the nearer the Valhalla approached the Forbidden Seas, the northernmost tip of Runeterra.

As they further approached, they fully viewed the destruction the sea beast had wrought. Wreckages floated, debris clouded the formerly pristine clear surface of the ocean. Several of the crew on board had began sharpening their weapons, roughly crafted blades that were either forged out of rock or bronze. The sea gradually gave way to a narrower strip surrounded on both sides by towering ivory landmasses that the crew described as 'icebergs". Although not enormous to the point of an island, the unnerving structures dotted the path of the Valhalla, proving as another obstacle they were required to conquer.

**THE** dreaded creature bared its fangs, observing the dozens of men on board the magnificent vessel. Another feast, it thought as its serpentine eyes glittered, continuing to observe atop the iceberg as the first crackle of electricity fizzed in its throat. A mere electrical bolt would have sufficed to sink that pathetic ship they travelled in, it knew, but it was hungry. When it first migrated to this fearsome stretch of water, it had sunk countless ships. Natural aggression had ensured that, and its fiercely territorial nature had not aided in the sparing of lives as well. But it had grown to adapt. The only ships that passed its land, it knew, were those occasional fishermen that had wandered too far off their domain. It had devoured quite a few of them, but the formerly large ships that carried hundreds, the ones which he truly relished, had never approached after he had sank a particularly large convoy, falling upon the helpless mates.

It continued creeping on its four muscled legs, observing with its snaking, hooded neck the ship that had docked on an island. _His_ island. It was where it had situated itself. All the better then. It would save it the trouble of consuming them in the water. How inconvenient.

"**MEN**!" Olaf commanded. "I know you have no attachments to me whatsoever, but the serpent is a beast of unmatched wit and power. Should any of you choose to back out now, it is perfectly understandable." Olaf eyed the ranks of men before him, each of them determined and handling their weapons. "I cannot promise your lives," Olaf continued,"_but what I can promise is the eternal glory your names will carry if we partake this dreadful expedition and kill the Frost Serpent!"_

"Arr!" the pirates raised their weapons in agreement.

"Very well," Olaf said pridefully, smiling upon his warriors. "Today, we fight. None of us are inferior. We fight for no one but ourselves. Today, we reclaim our glory!"

"Arrr!" the pirates cheered once more, following their leaders that had aligned themselves parallel to the cave that was the Frost Serpent's Lair.

"To action!" Olaf roared, charging towards the cave of the dreaded beast.

The next moment it seemed to go terribly wrong.

The beast seemed to have been informed of their visit. It snaked out of the cavern, the vicious quadruped leviathan that had terrified so many, and consumed even more. Stamping the ice and sending splinters of it all around itself, it roared, a bloodcurdling scream of rage. The crew let out cries of fear as the colossal beast bared its razor sharp fangs, its shell crackling with barely controlled electricity. Olaf, however, only laughed at the beast, refusing to succumb to terror.

"So this is how big you are?" Olaf said, gloating. "I expected you to be two times bigger! Men-charge!"

At that command, the men overcame their fear, charging headfirst into combat.

The beast reared his head back, and let a burst of electricity emit from his throat, sending the deadly projectile into the men. The target caught screamed, electrocuted to a burning crisp, and all those caught in the radius of the explosion fell backward at the force of the projectile.

Olaf continued alongside his companions, each of them surrounding the leviathan from different points. Sigvatr leapt adroitly, avoiding the reptile's deadly talons that raked at the air beside him and firing arrows that stuck limply in the beast's thick hide, quivering. Gragas hacked at the beast with his knuckles, bruising it but not causing any significant damage. Growling in annoyance, the beast flicked out its deadly tail, catching Gragas fully on the stomach and sending him rolling away in the impact.

Lifsteinn and Olaf had taken to the the head of the beast, assaulting the flabby throat of the beast with deadly clubbing motions from their axes. The leviathan screamed in pain, its electrical conductivity failing.

But it was not without casualties.

With every passing moment, the beast's claws would scythe at unfortunate victims, crippling and killing them with extreme brutality. By then, with its ability to send forth electricity hindered, it was obvious to the beast this was not a normal fight by any means. The remaining pirates had came with nets, coiling the thick strands over the leviathan's scaly body and tying it down. Roaring, the beast realised its assailant's wicked intent.

It was enraged now. No being had ever dealt such bodily damage to it, whatever its purposes. If he did not harness his full power, it was likely he would not survive this onslaught.

Upon seeing the beast bow its head, as if beaten into willing submission, the pirates cheered, while the experienced warriors walked around the beast with suspicion.

"Is it dead?" asked the ever-suspecting Lifsteinn.

"Aye, my friend, dead as a log. Now, let me carve off its...Arrggghhhh!"

**"SIGBJORN!"**

And with that, Olaf watched on as his best friend and truest companion died, electrocuted to a burning corpse by the beast he presumed dead. The Frost Serpent was not dead. On the contrary, it was alive and angrier than ever, fighting with a renewed frenzy. Electricity covered its carapace like a shroud, electrocuting those that dared come near. Flinging about its tail, any pirate that had overextended their positions found themselves welcomed by a battering ram that hammered into their faces, sending them flying into the ice.

He could not care about them now, the men that catapulted into the air due to the immense force of the creature. He could not see the bright crimson droplets that had splattered over his face, that had clouded the previous pristine clear surface of the ice. He could only see a mangled corpse, blackened, with smoke still rising from it.

His cousin was not dead. No. Never. It couldn't be. This was not how it was supposed to end. The expedition was supposed to end in fame and glory; it was supposed to bring his members wealth and reputation. it was supposed to end with six men embracing each other. Not like this. Not with casualties. This was not how it was supposed to be. The corpse couldn't be his brother. It couldn't be. It had to be some trick, some optical illusion the beast had played on his eyes. His brother couldn't be dead.

Yet it was, the opaque, lifeless orbs of white that returned Olaf's gaze. It was Sigbjorn, the companion that had accompanied him wherever he went, whatever he did. his true frind that had never abandoned him, never forsaken him, never despised on him or mocked him. The charred, dead man was Sigbjorn, his best friend and true Brother. An uncontrollable feeling surged through Olaf, sending him trembling.

"Olaf!"

He heard the familiarly annoying voice as a pair of gloved hands grabbed his shoulders, ripping him away from his previous position. A claw scratched at what would have been his body if not for Lifsteinn's swift intervention. Gragas attacked, ramming the beast's vulnerable neck with his colossal bulk. Classic military strategy. Distract the enemy on the left and they will never see what was coming from the right.

The beast retreated temporarily in surprise, but quickly went on the offensive again upon realising the strength of the opposition. Gragas alone, along with Sigvatr and Melkofr apart from Lifsteinn that was dragging Olaf to safety.

"Olaf! Wake up!"

There it was again, that annoying voice. _Lifsteinn_, he though uncaringly to himself. Why couldn't he just shut up and leave him alone with his brother?

_His brother._

"Sigbjorn!" roared Olaf with renewed strength as he tore out, wrenching himself free of Lifsteinn's grip. He could spot him still in the distance, a burnt speck in the clear white. No one would take him away from him again. He would not lose his brother a second time.

Lifsteinn watched in horror as his comrade charged. What the **** was he thinking? Lifsteinn thought desperately to himself as he launched in pursuit of Olaf. He continued his chase, watching as Olaf clumsily manoeuvred through the beast that guarded the corpse, colliding with its limbs in his charge. Angered, the beast flung Gragas off like a rag doll, rammed its entire head into his body. He landed on the ice as a faint cracking sound was heard. Gragas rolled over and lay still.

With Gragas unconscious, the beast directed its full attention onto the duo that was running. Their motives were unknown, but it recognised the bearded, blonde-haired warrior as "Olaf". That was what they hailed him as. What had left him his greatest impression, however, was the mark his twin axes had left on his neck.

A flailing tail caught Olaf directly in the chest, ramming into him and sending him staggering at the massive force exerted. A second more powerful blow deliberately aimed at his head sent him falling onto his knees, and yet he offered no retaliation, no counter attack. Nothing. His entire concentration was devoted on the dead man that laid a few meters away from him. A third strike by the beast's deadly claws, the most forceful yet, raked deep into his chest and sent him sprawling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it through his vision, rearing its head in triumph, poised to deliver the final blow as its gaping maw, outstretched, extended towards him and ready to enjoy the meal.

Olaf smiled and closed his eyes.


	3. Lost

**_UNTAMED RAGE_**

_**Chapter II: Lost**_

_His men rushed forwards without armour, were as mad as dogs or wolves, bit their shields, and were strong as bears or wild oxen, and killed people at a blow, but neither fire nor iron told upon them. This was called Berserkergang._

-Snorri Sturluson, Icelandic historian and poet

**ALONE.**

He felt no pain, felt nothing as the jaw of the beast arrived to meet him, streams of saliva erupting from the depths of the oral cavern. He could hear still, distinctly, the cacophony of sounds around was...chaotic. Screams of fear as the pirates watched the leviathan descending upon its prey; groans of agony the wounded emitted; the triumphant roar the creature gave. Then, as the blackness closed around him, there was nothing. Only a plain of darkness with frightening, deathly silence. Solitude was to be his only companion.

There was nothing he cared for now, just a sense of tiredness and resignation. Olaf felt the tongue of the leviathan clasp him tightly, as the colossal teeth rushed in to embrace him. _This is the end..._

He did not know what happened next, only felt his hands clench ever tighter onto the grip of his axes. He remembered the edge of the axe, composed of cold steel, that it could tear through any armour, and was capable of hooking entire bodies and severing their arteries. There was an untamed emotion in him, a stubborn will that he would not simply succumb to death, and Olaf felt it slowly take over, slowly engulfing his entire being. As his rage continued to take over, his vision clouded, the darkness slowly replaced by a deep, opaque hue of red...

**SEVERAL **minutes later, Olaf tore out through the beast's gaping maw, the very abyss that his comrades had thought him perished in, and flew with such force outward that his movement propelled him into the water. Watching in bewilderment and astonishment, the pirates watched the bloodied warrior approaching the shore, wide-eyed in wonder, and saluted with their mouths agape, paying respect to the berserker that had slain the terror of the high seas.

Melkofr, broken and crumpled by the side of Gragas, looked up incredulously at his fellow comrade. "But...how?

In truth, Olaf himself could not remember. He could only recall the crimson that covered his eyes, that he had lost himself to the bloodlust and did something unfathomable in his rage, something beyond the might of men. What was it that his subconscious had done? Olaf vaguely recalled his axe, yes. Ah, now he remembered. He had grasped an enormous tooth, and mustering his strength, shattered it in a single blow. And then...what?

Ah! The monster, pain stunning it, hissing in misery as it swung its head wildly. He had taken advantage of the situation, and, using the beast's tongue as leverage, leapt, slamming himself against the fragile side of the leviathan's mouth. Its scales had broken; he remembered hearing the shattering sound outside the beast's oral cavern.

Had he really done it himself? He doubted it. Olaf looked at his hands' calloused, rough surfaces, as if viewing it for the first time. Wrenching his gaze off his hands, he returned to the sight of the Frost Serpent's butchered carcass. It was he all right. It was Olaf, the Might of Lokfar, that had slain the Frost Serpent, Scourge of the Freljord.

What happened next after he had broke the beast's jaw? His mind furiously recalled the situation. Ah, yes. He had ascended the reptile's head, scaling the slippery mouth with the aid of the creature's teeth. Then...then he had tore out, clinging onto the flaring nostrils of the abomination. What happened next what truly lost to him. But he knew, from the feeling soreness in his arms, that he must have pummelled the creature with his axes into oblivion. He had done it so many times. Left, right, left, right. His axes would penetrate any armour, regardless of size or thickness, and the scales of the creature was no exception.

The lifeless corpse of his brother still lay unmoving a few meters away from him, now completely enveloped in a blanket of snow. Olaf took one last look at the frozen body, then trudged over to the rest of his companions that continued surveying him. No one noticed the single translucent bead of liquid slowly trickle its way down his eye, tracing itself deliberately over the rest of his facial features. Olaf looked behind, paying a final respect to his fallen brother before moving on.

The rest of the survivors made their way to the beast carefully, prodding the dead carcass of the reptile and embedding their weapons its thick hide, tearing off pieces as "souvenirs". Sigvatr edged closer, approaching his comrade. He bowed in sympathy, addressing Olaf with a slight nod as he uttered from beneath his cowl, "my condolences."

Olaf nodded in acceptance and made his way to the beast. He had passed, and he had failed. He had came to reclaim glory, but had found himself paying for it with the life of his most trusted friend. Was it truly worth it? He didn't know, neither did he want to answer. The Frost Serpent was dead. He had avenged his brother; blood for blood. He hadn't even heard his...last words.

"He died in peace, Olaf," Sigvatr said in his distinct monotone, as if reading his friend's mind. "Sigbjorn got what he always wanted, and what he would have deserved. He was rewarded a warrior's death on the battlefield. His name will live on forever, remembered by us all."

He nodded, as if satisfied with Sigvatr's explanation. He had to be satisfied, he _wanted_ to be satisfied. Sigbjorn didn't just die, he died a warrior's death, Olaf thought glumly. He died, died for glory, died for conquest, died for...me. His head bowed once more, fighting back to resist the tears brimming on his eyes. A roughly sewn glove brushed the liquid away, scattering them alongside Sigbjorn. "Goodbye, brother."

**THE** night after the burial, Olaf set forth back for Lokfar, along with the head of the beast, several pieces of severed limbs and the helmet of his most beloved friend. The last day had been one of mourning, where all that died where given an honourable burial. He had promised them eternal glory, and would carry out his duty. A proper burial was the least he could have done for them.

The beast's plates and scales, long sought after for its valuable crafting purposes and sung for ages, would ensure the rest of the crew got their deserved rewards. Selling them alone would garner them significant profit in gold. Olaf had only claimed the plate of the leviathan, the largest and most prized of the reptile's scales, as well as the creature's head that lay beside him now, towering even above him. He had known of the horns' electrical properties, told to be able to call forth the sky's fury. A most suitable addition to his already deadly axes.

Olaf had forsaken his helmet during the battle with the Frost Serpent, lost in the creature's throat and buried beneath layers of scales and flesh. His brother's helmet would have to suffice. Perhaps fate had decreed it to be so, but the helmet fitted exactly on Olaf's head. An honour to his dead brother. With every foe slain, his glory would live on forever. He only hoped that his deeds would be appreciated enough in Lokfar for him to once again take his place among the Berserker Warriors.

The wounded had largely recovered, with the exception for those that had lost their limbs in the violent action. Most of the wounded were, in fact, stunned by the reptile's unrelenting attacks. A few were unfortunate enough to have suffered concussions. Out of the original force, there were less than half of the members that had originally set out on the expedition.

Somehow, by coincidence, two warriors had situated themselves at the tail of the longboat once again, although they were not those before. Sigvatr and Melkofr had found it to be an exceptionally good place to converse; the secluded corner that no one associated themselves with. The duo watched Olaf sitting glumly with the mast as support for his back, gazing lifelessly at the azure plains of ocean. Contrary to the crew's expectations, the choppy waters they had been preparing for were absent, replaced by gentle, rolling waves. It was as if with the Frost Serpent's death, the oceans themselves were tamed.

Sigvatr spoke first, his eyes still deadlocking on Olaf. "So," he spoke,"do you think the Osmond scum will embrace him?"

Melkofr laughed, clutching his ribs. They had shattered whilst he was engaging in battle with the Frost Serpent. "We both know better, Sigvatr. Osmond will not tolerate any that dare challenge his rule. Being exiled was enough. Taking the longboat was treason itself. Returning with the Frost Serpent's head...? Osmond will take that as a direct vie for his position," Melkofr finished in a voice laced with scorn.

Sigvatr sighed, expelling air in an attempt to lessen his emotional load. 'You are correct. Osmond is a paranoid fool. I only hope that our brother does not rush into the trap Osmond has laid for him."

Melkofr looked at Olaf with renewed concern. "He has not heeded your advice?"

"Nay, brother. I approached him just today to warn him of Ivar Osmond. He refused to believe me, speaking of Osmond in language I cannot fathom. 'Friendly' and 'forgiving'. I wonder what has Osmond done to deserve such a mighty warrior at his side."

Sigvatr looked up towards the rolling clouds, knowing they were approaching land. "As I have stated, I only hope our brother is wise enough to anticipate Osmond's retaliation."

"**LAND** ahead!" bellowed the pirate from the crow's mast with relief, his voice echoing throughout the ship. Men rushed all over on board, readying the longboat for dock, as beneath the sails, a lone warrior looked up, fatigue clouding his eyes. There were black rings accompanying the skin beneath it, but he did not care.

Finally, he was home.

He dragged the head of the ferocious beast alongside him, as well as a gleaming plate attached between his belt. Olaf 's loincloth fluttered in the raging wind, which came along with the increasing cold. There was a stream of smoke, rising steadily out of the coastal village he knew as home. And along with it, there was the presence of the Lokfarian Army.

**ALTHOUGH** Olaf did not know it, he was seen before he had even stepped out of the Valhalla.

The sighting of a ship on the Eastern Shore by a scout.

The recognition of the longboat as the Valhalla, with its instantly identifiable sails bearing the Lokfarian coat-of-arms.

-The rapid alerting of Ivar Osmond, who had swiftly raised an army to condemn and bring to justice the hijacker of the longboat.

He was welcomed by a thundering bellow of the war horn he knew so well, used to summon any idle warriors to the battlefield as well as to bless them with divine strength. At the very front of the army, there stood Ivar Osmond, looking conceitedly at his opponent. A low chuckle amidst the warriors brought Olaf's attention, feeling a familiar emotion course through him as he witnessed Bildr elbow his way through the rank and file of the soldiers, emerging behind Ivar in all his due "glory", hunchbacked and smiling. He had no doubt it was he that had intentionally sowed discord between Ivar and himself.

Olaf's gaze sifted through the hundreds of men assembled outside the Eastern Gate, each bearing arms. The steely gaze in their eyes gave away their purpose long before the fight began. There would be no mercy, no draw. Either Olaf would slay them or they would slay Olaf. There would be no compromise between the two.

It would be a fight to the death.

"OLAF!" Ivar called out in a thin voice filled with hatred, his eyes glaring at his target. "You have three seconds to plead guilty and die honourably, or face your brothers in combat and die a traitor. I am counting now!"

He regretted now that he hadn't taken Sigvatr's advice. Sigvatr always had incredible foresight, and yet, despite his doubts, he had not believed it. He had chosen not to believe it. He remembered now, how Ivar had drove his brothers out of Lokfar. How could he think his fate could be any different?

"One!" Ivar's venomous voice rang, surprisingly loud.

"Two!"

Ivar's eyes narrowed, a hand already firmly secured onto the sheath of his sword. If need be, he would dash out and execute the target. He was confident he would succeed. After all, he had done it so many times.

But Olaf was no mere target.

The final word echoed in the air as the soldiers now entered into combat positions. The atmosphere had turned deathly silent, and even the breathing of the hundreds of men seemed to be muted. Olaf was reminded of his encounter with Bildr in the inn. It had ended in the exact same fashion :silence, disappointment. Except now, he was surrounded by merciless scoundrels that wouldn't hesitate to kill him in a second.

Ivar shook his head, as if disappointed by Olaf 's decision. "Why?" he said, almost regretting his treatment towards the lone berserker. "You were the mightiest of all Lokfarian warriors. Why did you have to betray us? Steal our greatest possession? Leave us for your band of misfits?"

Olaf turned his head back, refusing to answer. Ivar took the hint, nodding quietly as he unsheathed his sword, the blade bathed in moonlight, gleaming brightly. "So be it," Ivar stated, holding the weapon firmly. There was not a single shred of doubt in his eyes as he prepared to carry out his purpose. Olaf had to die. It was the only way.

"This is how it has to end!" the chieftain roared, dashing towards his opponent. Suddenly the two were almost side by side, each delivering strikes to each other. The metal of their weapons rang out in the open space, sparks flying wildly into the air. Ivar grunted in frustration as he dealt swing after swing to his opponent, that clumsily blocked it with his dual axes. Despite his bullish, slow actions, it was impossible to bypass his defence, nor use brute force to overcome him. Breathing heavily, Ivar dove back, cleaving the air in front of him in his retreat, stopping to catch his breath. Olaf stood where he was, head bowed, a few strands of blonde hair flapping on his forehead.

Ivar was panting now, supported by his weapon, half-submerged in the ice. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his body rising and falling with every breath. He had expended too much energy in the brief clash. If the battle was to go on, he would be almost guaranteed to lose.

"Is this how you wanted it to be, traitor?" Ivar shouted in an attempt to demoralize his foe, while slinking slowly back to the cover of his men. His finger, quivering, was still directed at Olaf.

Deliberately, almost as if enlightened, Olaf slowly shook his head, slowly bringing his axes out in front of him again, and responded. "This. Is how you wanted it to end." Brushing away his few stray strands of hair, the berserker rose to his full height, bearing his proud weapons in front of him. His tired, bloodshot eyes displayed no emotion. "And this," he continued,"is how it must end."

With that, two hundred berserkers charged into the battlefield, ready to fight to the death.

Olaf shut his eyes and lay still.

**HE** remembered briefly, how he had channelled the incredible power and used it to defeat the Frost Serpent. It was through pain. Emotional pain, physical pain, they all worked the same. The pain of being concussed, the pain of losing his brother. And now, the pain of being forsaken.

Olaf let it go.

He felt it again, the initial surge that always made him shudder violently. Olaf knelt onto the ice, his heartbeat accelerating, pumping at incredible speeds. And then, finally, when he opened his eyes, all they saw was red.

**LOKFARIAN** soldiers were trained in the most brutal way possible, strapped to poles and whipped to strengthen tenacity and forced to carry weights twice their mass to enhance strength. The process was incredibly hard, but at the end of it, those who survived (no more than a fraction of their original amount) were tempered into the most deadly of Freljordian warriors. The warriors that charged across the battlefield were those that served with him before in the Troll-Berserker Wars. He knew them, how they would attack, what strategies they would employ.

The first warriors approached their target, fanning out and circling him. This was how they had been taught. No escape. Holding out their weapons menacingly in front of them, they continued their advance, stealthily edging towards the berserker.

Looking at the warrior now, the soldiers could honestly say they did not expect a retaliation. After bringing himself to his full height a few seconds before, he had sank to the ground, where he still remained now, hair cascading over his head, burying his head beneath a sea of blonde. Even so, they approached cautiously. They had knew Olaf as a mighty warrior; they had seen his combat prowess forehand. His battle with the chief would have stated that clearly, even if his wartime record didn't speak volumes more.

That was exactly what Olaf had been anticipating.

With a primal roar of rage, he tore out of the ground, swinging his axes in a wide arc and dismembering those that had overextended themselves. Agonised, high-pitched voices rang out in the battlefield as Olaf charged his way out of the encirclement, taking advantage of the initial confusion to escape the circle. Thrown into chaos, the warriors simply forsook their battle plans, each charging headfirst into combat. There was no Ivar Osmond to command them, nor any Olafs to raise their morale.

Perfect.

With each blow he inflicted, limbs flew into the air, crimson liquid spurting out in insane proportions. He had never known the human body contained so much blood. He could feel his face, splattered with fresh drops of blood. The blood of _his_ men. His arms belonged to him no longer. They seemed to have a mind of their own, each delivering vicious strikes, however reckless the blows might be. Olaf could hear metal crumpling, squeaking under the immense pressure of his blows.

Then, he saw Bildr.

**OLAF** saw him surging ahead, the mocking smile ever so evident on his face. He was despicable. He was a trickster. Then he stood there, smiling tauntingly. he raised a wizened stick of a finger, coiling it slowly and deliberately, as if daring him to come forward, to challenge him.

Olaf's head throbbed, feeling rage infiltrate his thoughts, bypass his better judgement. In his eyes, Bildr wasn't an aged raider. he was a demon. A cold, unliving, sadistic demon that enjoyed every single moment of his torment. He was always there, sabotaging, coaxing, provoking. His mind dwelled on it, on every single negative quality if Bildr. The living, pulsating thing inside his skull wasn't his now. It was commanded by the old man.

His legs slowly moved forward, unable to resist the calling of the old man. For him, death would be a mercy. His agitation had turned into uncontrollable anger, boiling into a blind fury. Bildr was standing still, his features twisted into a wicked smile. He was weak, old, pathetic. Killing him would be doing him a favour.

Olaf gave in to anger and charged.

For a man of his age, Bildr was surprising nimble, sidestepping Olaf and ducking his wild swing. His smile remained plastered to his face, throwing a final mocking glance at Olaf before fleeing. Olaf followed, hot in pursuit...

And suddenly, he was gone. Unable to stop his charge, Olaf's momentum propelled him into the ice, the surface spiralling like frosted glass. He swallowed, feeling something claim him, an otherworldly presence that seemed to wrap around him, securing him in its ice-cold grasp. Bildr was no mere man. He had agility beyond comparison, and now..these magical bindings were beyond human. He had manipulated him skilfully, playing him in the exact same fashion as an expert puppeteer handling a marionette. He had lost, and now he would die...

A distant laugh sounded in the background, followed by a masculine, deep voice.

"Not so fast!"

The voice appeared out of seemingly nowhere, catching Olaf by complete surprise. He glimpsed a hulking behemoth, his muscular chest dotted with strange blue tattoos, markings whose meaning he could not fathom. The man breathed heavily, smashing an unknown weapon onto the ground. The effect was shown a minute later, when the ice before him erupted in a series of explosions, scattering a mist of white powder. From his position, Olaf was not sure who was his assailant, but he could have sworn, in midst of the chaos, he had heard a feminine cry of rage. Then his saviour picked him up, and by the time the mist cleared and the surviving warriors arrived, they were gone like the wind.


	4. Manipulator

_**UNTAMED RAGE**_

_**Chapter III: Manipulator**_

**THE **old man smiled to himself, his face wrinkling at the movement of his lips as he glided smoothly along the ice, so quickly that one would find it impossible to catch up. Despite the cracked lips, hunched figure and the wizened, leathery skin, the onlooker fast enough to spot his glide would know at first sight. It was almost obvious, from the speed of his movement to the feminine pose, that this was no mere elder.

When he approached his destination, the armour he donned seemed to shed itself, peeling off him like a layer of moulted skin left behind, revealing the patches of blue that was, in every sense, inhuman. The shrunken, beaten head seemed to melt into itself, the deep azure skin pushing outwards as the helmet vanished in an instant, replaced by a glowing headdress. Strands of light blue ice, thin as the ice could see, emerged of of nowhere, coiling itself and attaching it behind the headdress. Finally, Bildr's body was elongated, his limbs stretching out to become slender and twig-like. Although it looker fragile, there was no substance on Runeterra quite as hard as it.

True Ice, he thought to himself grimly, reminding himself of the substance he was blessed with. To describe the...creature after its supposed metamorphosis as a 'he' would have been unbelievable. Instead, the old man was replaced by a slender and feminine being that stood alone, ice crackling beneath her, similar to a lotus blossoming. The difference was that lotuses were beautiful and harmless. The jagged spikes that surrounded her would pierce through any armour and sever any skeleton.

She stood severely in the ice, the head bowed and almost as if in mourning. Nor would it be any surprise if she did. The Ice Witch was known for her particularly sadistic nature. She didn't kill for self-preservation, she didn't kill for allies. She killed for fun, for absolutely no reason at all. She continued her glide, cruising through the enormous glacier she had converted into her own private retreat. Lissandra's official residence was in the Frostguard Peak, but it was here that she enjoyed herself most. It was here that she contained her tomes and magics any mortal would condemn. And it was also here, centuries ago, that the Watchers had bestowed their power upon her and her sisters. She was the Ice Witch, Herald of the Great. She was Lissandra, ultimate mastermind and unfolder of events. She was the master, and all of Runeterra would eventually succumb to her grasp.

She could still remember when the berserker was born, there had been a bolt of lightning so intense it had blinded the Ice Witch herself. It was then followed by the rolling thunder that boomed, signalling the potential and greatness the newborn would achieve. It was her that had orchestrated the events that brought the child to Lokfar. She knew that Lokfar was by far the most vicious of all the Freljordian cities, and the Berserkers would serve her purpose exactly. He would achieve the strength and mindlessness of a berserker, a perfect herald for destruction.

So she had done it, sending a horde of her minions to terrorise their village. She had watched the entire process unfurl with pleasure through her enchanted crystal, a shard of ice depicting events unfolding in the Freljord. The only regret she felt was that she was not the one to personally slaughter the villagers. For the Frostguardian leader to be committing such deeds of massacre would be beyond belief. He was brought exactly where she wanted. How could he not? There were trolls to the West, territorial and barbaric. they would slaughter anyone not of their kind. The East was a desolate plain, nothing where mountain peaks lay. His village in the South was already ransacked, pillaged and destroyed, with her underlings still roaming in the ruins should he return. Olaf's had no choice but to choose Lokfar. To speak of the truth, he had absolutely no say in it.

Of course, she had known that one day, he would have to return to serve her. After all, she did not painstakingly arrange his training and the destruction of his village for nothing. So, she had slain Bildr, and taken his identity a few months back, observing the berserker whenever she could.

She did not like what she saw.

Olaf was a boastful, conceited fool, one that would not take kindly to mockery. He appeared to be loyal to his master, but Lissandra knew what lurked in the hearts of men. Push him hard enough, she knew, and he would turn his back on whoever he once served. And her prediction was correct, of course. She always was. The Tossing, as it was called, was nothing but a game arranged by herself. She already knew the results. She _controlled_ them.

Lissandra had known, of course, that true allegiance took years to form, and a second to break. Those forged in a moment of impulse were usually due to promises of reward or treasure. Her sisters were living proof of that theory, and Olaf was no exception. For him to serve her, willingly, would require something that would break him. Maybe, perhaps, the death of a close friend, so that she might continue her manipulation, playing him into her palm.

The battle she had arranged was meant for Olaf to succumb to the might of the several hundred men, before she swooped in and rescued him. The soldiers should have taken care of him easily. However, she was wrong. She had gotten a taste of his power firsthand and watched as he annihilated the opposition. Even so, she was no match for his magic. If not for that interfering intruder, she would have gotten him easily.

The intruder...

She remembered seeing his shield somewhere. It was certainly unique, the material, the shape, the appearance...it seemed all very familiar to her. She herself might even have constructed it. But it did not matter. One setback would be of no issue to the grand plan ahead. She had spent years planning this operation. She could not fail.

Lissandra smiled to herself. Give him time, she knew. The Crystal might not be able to display his location now, as there were no major events transpiring, but she knew no man could remain in seclusion forever. He would come out, and she would seek him out once again.

And then, Olaf would, of course, be hers, all hers.


End file.
